


Limbo

by Calais_Reno



Series: Speculative Shorts [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apocalypse, Declarations Of Love, Don’t copy to another site, Explosions, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), M/M, Nobody is Dead, Paperwork, Second Chances, Waiting Rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 09:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20636651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Ordinarily Sherlock would be quite impatient by now with all this pointless waiting (for what?), but at the moment he feels as if he has all the time in the world.





	Limbo

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лимб](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860445) by [bfcure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bfcure/pseuds/bfcure)

Sherlock tries to find a comfortable position in the plastic chair. How long has he been in this horrible waiting room? He looks around, sees no clock. Several seascapes hang on the walls. No windows, no doors. (_Interesting_, that.) Just plastic chairs, a couple of low tables piled with old magazines. He is the only one waiting; the other chairs are empty.

As he thinks about it, he can’t even remember what he’s waiting for.

Music is piping softly in the background— Muzak, actually— an instrumental version of “Another One Bites the Dust.” The frosted glass window of the reception desk is shut. A sign on it says _Do Not Knock on Glass!_

He stands and stretches his legs a bit, looking over the magazines. _Country Homes and Interiors. Hello. Chemistry World. _

He picks up a magazine, sits down in a different chair, and tries to read an article about heirloom vegetables. Flipping pages, he wonders if it’s noon yet. He tries to remember breakfast. Eggs and toast, perhaps, as usual. Two cups of tea.

Instead of breakfast, he remembers an explosion. Things flew through the air, he recalls. Maybe he was one of those things.

He sets down _Retro Gardener_.

_Where is John? _

Thinking about this makes him feel vaguely uneasy. Maybe he should call John, he thinks, patting his pockets. But he’s lost his phone, or maybe left it at home, on his bedside table. (Or maybe it was destroyed; _explosion_, remember?) He doesn’t know the exact time, but it feels like it might be afternoon. Not because he’s hungry; he rarely eats lunch. Just because he feels as if he’s been here for hours, so long that he can’t even remember if he checked in when he arrived. Maybe the receptionist decided to take an extra long lunch and do some shopping. Shouldn’t he have signed a clipboard or something when he arrived? He can’t remember signing in.

He can’t remember arriving.

He strolls over to the reception window. No sign-in, no clipboard. Raising his hand, he knocks lightly, barely rattling the window.

The window slides open. A man wearing sunglasses frowns at him. “Didn’t you read the sign?”

“I did,” he admits. “But I think I forgot to sign in. Was I supposed to?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t remember making one, but I’ve been waiting here for at least an hour, and there isn’t anyone else waiting, so I thought…”

He trails off. The man is looking at him over the top of his sunglasses. Amber eyes with vertical pupils. Like a snake. _Odd_. Plastic surgery these days can do some very strange and unnecessary things.

“Name?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

The snake-eyed man closes his eyes, as if he’s trying to think of something. He frowns, then opens his eyes again. “You’re a bit early, I think,” he says. “We weren’t expecting you to arrive so soon.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I can come back later, if you like.”

“No, no. Let me check.” He gives Sherlock a long-suffering look and slides the window closed again.

Sherlock assumes that a receptionist’s life must be difficult— saying the same things all day long, all the smiling, and dealing with impatient people who knock on the window in spite of the very clear directions on the sign. He would make a terrible receptionist, he thinks.

He looks at the sign, which seems to have acquired another exclamation point: _Do Not Knock on Glass!!_ He resists the impulse to knock again.

His patience is rewarded when Snake-Eyes opens the window again. “Someone can see you now.”

“Oh, good.”

“Do you see that door?”

To his surprise, there is a door where the receptionist is pointing.

“Go on through, make a left, another left, a right, and continue to the third door. Knock, and someone will let you in.”

“Thank you.” It’s strange, he thinks, as he turns the door knob and goes into the hallway he doesn’t remember. Ordinarily he would be quite impatient by now with all this pointless waiting (_for what?_), but at the moment he feels as if he has all the time in the world.

He finds the third door and taps politely.

“Enter,” says a pleasant voice.

He opens the door and finds himself in another waiting room. Plastic chairs, magazines, seascapes.A smiling man with curly white hair sits behind a small desk, beaming at him.

“Welcome!” This man does not have snake eyes, Sherlock notices with relief. “How can I help you?”

“Er, I think I’m early. The other receptionist said so.”

“Early?” The cheerful receptionist chuckles.

“Is that funny?”

“It’s just a little joke,” the man replies. “We don’t actually use time here. Please, have a seat.”

They face one another across the small desk. The man continues to smile. “I’ll be doing your orientation today, Mr Holmes. I know it’s a lot to process, so if you have any questions, please feel free to ask.”

“I do have one question,” Sherlock says. He squints at the name tag. _A.Z. Fell. _“Mister, erm, Fell?”

A. Z. Fell smiles. “What would you like to know?”

“Is John all right? Is he here? We should have arrived together, but I haven’t seen him.”

The pleasant man looks baffled. “John?”

“Yes. He’s my friend. We were together when the building blew up, so I assumed he would be here, with me.”

“Excuse me, you used a name—”

“Yes. John, John Watson. My friend.”

Mr Fell rises from his chair, opens a door behind the desk that wasn’t there a moment ago, and speaks to another person. “I think this one’s yours.”

Snake Eyes peers around the door. Sherlock waves at him. “Hello, again.”

“How can you tell?” Snake Eyes asks the cheerful man.

“His memory has not been properly wiped.”

Snake Eyes huffs. “Not my job, angel.”

“Well, it’s somebody’s job, _demon_. How is he supposed to join eternity if he’s still bound to his life? How’s he supposed to enjoy ineffable peace if he’s worried about John?”

“John?”

“He’s my friend,” Sherlock explains. “There was an explosion. We were together, so I just assumed— oh.” He has a partial epiphany. “Does this mean he’s still alive?” It seems strange to hope that John is dead, but the alternative, surviving that explosion, seems worse. Flying through the air, hitting something, breaking bones, exploding organs. He shudders.

“Take him to the Memory Department,” the angel says.

The demon rolls his snake eyes. “Come with me.”

Sherlock follows him down the hallway. When they have turned right, then left, then right, and left again, they stand before another door. The demon turns the knob, revealing another waiting room with plastic chairs, magazines, Muzak.

“I never imagined the afterlife would have so much bureaucracy,” Sherlock says, just to make conversation.

The demon shrugs. “That’s Limbo for you.”

“Limbo,” he says. “Oh. Does that mean I’m going to be sorted? Heaven, or… the other place?”

“Don’t get ahead of me, now,” the demon replies. He sounds a bit grumpy, Sherlock thinks. “Mostly it means waiting. Have a seat.”

“May I help you?” the receptionist asks. It’s A.Z. Fell again.

“He needs his memory wiped,” Snake Eyes says.

“Fill this out.” Mr Fell hands him a clipboard and a pen.

“Have a happy afterlife,” says Snake Eyes. “Or not.” He gives the angel a thumbs-up.

He sits in the plastic chair and looks at the first item. The pen doesn’t work; he has to scribble the pen on the back of the form to make the ink flow. Then he neatly prints his name, address, and cause of death. Unsure about the last, he simply writes _explosion._

He brings the form up to the desk, hands it to the angel, who is twiddling his thumbs, staring vacantly at the seascapes. Smiling, he takes the clipboard. “If you’ll just have a seat, we’ll be with you shortly.”

“What’s the delay?” he asks. “I notice you’re not very busy right now. And since I’m the only one here…” He shrugs.

The angel gives him a tight, insincere smile. “We’re always busy, Mr Holmes. After all, it is the Apocalypse.” He giggles. “That’s our little joke— _after all._ The Apocalypse is, quite literally, after _all_.”

“Apocalypse,” he says, trying the word out on his tongue. “As in Revelations, the Seven Seals, the Four Horsemen, etc? Aren’t there supposed to be prophecies, omens, all that sort of thing? It isn’t even 2012 yet.”

“There’s where you’re mistaken,” the angel says. “Here, we are outside of time. Everything happens at once in Limbo, you see. No need for prophecies or omens. On the final day, which happens to be _now_—”

“Now? You just said that we’re outside of time. How can there be a _now_ if time does not exist?”

The angel seems a bit annoyed, but attempts a pleasant smile. “I’m afraid that explaining temporal paradoxes is not part of my job. I process new arrivals. As I was saying, all the dead awaken for the final judgment. So we are quite busy, though it may not look that way to you.”

“I remember an explosion. Was that the end of the world?”

“Actually, no. Once you’re dead, you lose track of time. And when the Apocalypse happens, time vanishes. Did you hear trumpets?”

“I recall hearing a loud explosion,” he says. “I don’t recall any trumpets. So, if everybody is dead, John must be here, somewhere.”

“Theoretically, yes. Everyone who’s ever lived is here.”

“And we’re all waiting for… judgment? You mean, to learn which place we go to?”

The angel nods. “Yes, this is where the quick and the dead are processed for the afterlife.”

“But it isn’t quick. I’ve been here for hours.”

“By _quick_, I meant _living. _Those who hadn’t yet died when the Apocalypse started. Without time, of course, it’s all relative.”

Sherlock is having trouble imagining existence— even his present state of non-existence— without the reference of time. The angel doesn’t look eager to explain it all again, so he decides to let it go. “I see. I don’t mean to upset your procedures, but is it necessary to wipe my memory?”

“You don’t want to forget?”

“Why would I?”

“Well, it rather spoils the ineffable joy. How are you supposed to enjoy the afterlife when you’re still thinking about your life on earth, regretting things and wondering if you left the iron plugged in?”

“I have my clothes sent out. No iron.”

“What I mean is, no life is without pain and sorrow. Most people are happy to leave it all behind.”

“Do people get a choice?”

“Well, no. Most just sign the paperwork. There really isn’t any point in remembering anything, now that it’s all gone. Not like you could go haunt the living, is it?” He chuckles.

“I would prefer not to forget,” Sherlock said. “I had some rough spots in life, but I was finally getting the hang of it. Mostly, I’d like to remember John. If necessary, I’ll keep all my memories, even the hard times, as long as I can keep him.”

“We cannot selectively wipe memories, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s just this: if I see John again, I’d hate to pass by without recognising him. He’s a remarkable person. And the last words he said to me are something I do not want to forget. Bottom line: I refuse to sign.”

The angel is curious now. “What were his last words?”

“We were in the building, the one that blew up, you know, and we realised it was rigged with explosives, and there was no time to get out before it blew. We looked at one another, and finally, in our last moments, admitted what we both knew.”

“Which was… what, exactly?”

“I said I wasn’t really married to the Work, that I loved him. And he said he loved me as well. Then there was the kiss. I definitely don’t want to forget that. When you love someone that much, don’t you get to spend eternity with them?”

“In theory, yes. But it’s a problematic thing. What about people whose spouses die, and then they marry again? Which spouse do they choose? Or if you were planning to divorce, but the papers hadn’t gone through yet, would you want to be stuck with that person for eternity, simply because you were still technically married? You can see how it might lead to problems.”

“What about the Mormons? What do they do?”

“They have their own afterlife. We don’t administrate that. You weren’t married, then? You and John?”

“No. But John and I belong together. We don’t have any previous spouses, or even anything close. We might have married, if we hadn’t blown up, but when you’ve only got ten seconds to discuss it, well. There it is. Doesn’t seem fair. I refuse to sign.”

With a sigh, the angel stands. “Come with me.”

He follows him down another hallway, to another door which, unsurprisingly, leads into yet another waiting room. _Another one bites the dust…_

Behind a small desk sits Snake Eyes. “May I help you?”

Mr Fell sighs again. “He won’t sign the agreement. Apparently, he has a bond.”

“Married?”

“No, but—”

“Engaged? Was there a proposal?”

Sherlock sighs. “Shall I explain about the explosion again?”

“No need.” The demon turns to the angel. “Unfinished business. Can we send him back?”

“You know we can’t. Love confessions are not the same as a real bond. One of them might have been lying. Besides, it’s the Apocalypse. Too late for regrets. No more do-overs.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I thought time didn’t exist here.”

They both look at Sherlock, frowning.

He smiles brightly. “I mean, it’s your rules. Did the Apocalypse destroy time as well as everything else?”

“That is the definition of Apocalypse,” the demon says. “Complete, final destruction.”

“Of everything?” Sherlock gestures at the plastic furniture, the uninspiring seascapes, the old magazines. “What is all this, then?”

“Here, we’re outside of time,” Mr Fell explains. “Only the things within time were destroyed.”

Sherlock knows that the logic is shaky, but carries on. “Well, then. If people and things were destroyed, that means they once existed. Like me. I used to live in London, at 221B Baker Street. John was my flatmate.”

“Yes, I know the area— near Regents Park. Lovely neighbourhood.” The angel smiles. “I lived in Soho.”

“Then we’re not entirely outside of time, are we? I mean, if there used to be time, and now there isn’t any, that in itself means something. We’re now _post-Apocalypse_, which means there must have been a _pre-Apocalypse_, implying that we are still somehow part of a timeline.”

“I don’t like it,” says the demon. “Didn’t I tell you, angel? No good thinking we’re _outside of_ time when we used to exist _in_ time. We wouldn’t be here if something apocalyptic hadn’t happened, and _happening_ requires time, in order for it to… erm… happen. There is still a _before_ and an _after,_ which means we’re still in time.”

“Perhaps we’re just used to measuring things by time,” the angel replies. “We think it’s lunch time because we’re used to having lunch at noon.” He frowns, murmurs to himself. “I miss clocks.”

“And in any case,” Sherlock continues, “why do you get to remember things and I have to forget?”

“I remember getting dressed this morning,” says the angel. “I had a lovely omelette for breakfast. Then I came here. Shouldn’t it be lunch time by now?”

Unconvinced, Sherlock folds his arms across his chest. “If the Apocalypse has happened, where are all the other people? Hm? You ought to have lines of dead people stretching from here to the edge of the universe.”

The angel and the demon look at one another.

The demon hisses. “I hate this job.”

“He makes some good points,” the angel says. “What are his options?”

“Are you a Buddhist? A Hindu?” the demon asks.

“I’m an atheist.”

“No reincarnation, then,” the demon says.

“Technically, I shouldn’t even have an afterlife,” Sherlock points out, “since I don’t believe in one.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” says the demon. “The afterlife is the final _gotcha_ for atheists. It’s why She invented the bloody thing, to show atheists how wrong they were.”

This is disturbing in a way that Sherlock can’t describe. “Actually, I was more of an agnostic. Undecided. It’s a capital mistake to theorise without evidence, you know.”

The angel shakes his head. “Well, we’ve got to process him somehow. Can’t we just pass him along for judgment?”

“I thought agnostics were supposed to remain in Limbo,” the demon says.

“I thought _this_ was Limbo," Sherlock says. "What’s Limbo like?”

“Same waiting room, older magazines,” says Mr Fell.

“In any case,” says the demon, “he’ll need to fill out the judgment questionnaire. Not that I feel particularly judgmental, but that’s supposed to be our job. Our sentence, for messing up the First Apocalypse.”

“The First Apocalypse?” Sherlock asks.

“It really wasn’t our fault,” the angel explains. “The babies were swapped.”

The demon shrugs. “Maybe we could swap this bloke with someone. There are plenty of old, rich, annoying people who never seem to die. I’m sure there are a few of them still refusing to acknowledge the Apocalypse.”

The angel hesitates. “Apocalypse or no, I’d feel better if he’d at least filled out the questionnaire. I mean, he might be one of yours, and if we send him back, he’ll become an evil crime lord or something.”

“I may not be an angel,” Sherlock tells him, “but I am on your side.” He nods at the demon. “No offence.”

“None taken.” The angel says this, giving the demon a sweet smile. “Right, Crowley?”

The demon rolls his snake eyes again and hisses. “Oh, let’sss… just send him back. He’s boring.” He huffs. “They’ve lied to us, angel.”

“Do stop pouting,” Mr Fell says cheerfully. “Perhaps we can send ourselves back as well. I mean, if time is still running in the background, and we’re outside of it— they did say that, remember? Well, if that’s true, we can plunk ourselves down in whatever century we like best.”

“Not the nineteenth century,” the demon groans. “Please.”

Sherlock clears his throat again. “If you’re plunking people down, do you think you could plunk me back a bit in time? Give us a fair chance to escape dying, I mean, before the, erm, explosion.”

“We might,” the angel says, “But that will revoke your love admission, since it was a last minute declaration. And the kiss as well. No bond.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sherlock says. “This time, I’ll say it without an impending explosion.”

“Fine,” says Crowley wearily. “Just… have a seat.”

As the two of them head through the door, the angel turns and beams at him. “We’ll be with you soon.” As the door closes behind them, he hears a giggle. “_Soon,_ I said. Do you see what I did there?”

“Haha. You’d better help me with this paperwork, angel, or lunch will have to be postponed.”

He sits and listens to the music. Freddie Mercury sings, _Save me, save me, save me…_

Something is beeping. He feels groggy. His mouth is dry.

Beeping.

_I’m beeping,_ he realises. A heart monitor. A hospital.

_I’ve been blown up, but I’m still alive._

He takes stock. No pain. Probably morphine is managing that.

Wiggles toes and fingers. If he’s lost a limb or two, his phantom fingers and toes are doing a good job of fooling his brain.

No breathing tube, so that’s good news.

_John. Where is John?_

He opens his eyes, tries to sit up, flails aimlessly.

“Sherlock?” A familiar voice. A hand, taking his. “I’m right here, Sherlock.”

Tries to bring his eyes into focus. John, in a hospital gown, right arm in a sling, bandage around his head.

Licks his lips. Whispers. “John.”

Beautiful smile. “Good to have you back. You’ve been out for a while.” John is blinking, his eyes wet. He’s slept sitting up, injured, and in pain.

“John,” he whispers.

“Don’t talk. You don’t have to say anything. Mostly bruises for me, and a broken arm. You’ve had a concussion, and your femur was broken.” He blinks again, wipes his eyes. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have known.”

“No way you could have.” Wipes his eyes again. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“John. I have to tell you something.”

A hand on his forehead. “Nothing you need to say right now.”

“I love you.” He closes his eyes and breathes. This might be the moment when everything goes awry. John doesn’t, he can’t… “Wanted to say it for a long time.”

He feels lips touch his forehead, opens his eyes.

John Watson is crying. “I know, Sherlock.” Laughs wetly. “Not like you don’t say that every morning, you git. I know you love me. Why else would you have asked me to marry you?”

He sees the ring on John’s finger, feels for his own.

“They had to remove your ring before you went into surgery,” he says. “They gave it to Mycroft for safekeeping.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know exactly.” A deep breath, voice shakes. “A few hours.”

“I mean. Us. How long?”

“You’ve already forgotten our anniversary? We’ve been married six months, my love. Just so happy…” He draws a deep breath, lets it out in a stifled sob. “So happy I won’t have to celebrate our first anniversary alone.”

“I was dead. For a while.”

John looks down at their intertwined hands. “Yeah. I know.”

He remembers the place he was waiting. “The afterlife is boring,” he says. “Too much paperwork.”

John laughs.

The angel and the demon are strolling across a park somewhere. Crowley is shaking his head.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, frowning. “You agreed. We gave him a reprieve.”

“Obviously. But he hadn’t told what’s-his-name—”

“John.”

“We gave him enough time to survive the explosion,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods. “That’s what we decided. He seemed like a nice human. I just thought he should have another go at life. Living, loving. All of that.”

“Yes, we decided, gave him a few minutes. And _you_ decided to spare him the trouble of actually declaring his love?”

“Well,” says the angel. “He might have wasted his opportunity. So many do. I just wanted to make sure he got what he wanted— what they both deserved.”

“So you just miracled a marriage for them. Will he remember?”

“As soon as his concussion heals, he’ll remember the wedding. It was a lovely affair— an outdoor wedding— though I did have to fix the weather for that to happen. January in London, you know, rainy and cold. I made it 21 and sunny. He wore a black tuxedo, and John wore white— nothing symbolic, I just thought it complimented their own colouring. Aubergine cummerbunds for both. White roses and mauve lilies. People still talk about the cake. They’ll both remember without all the bother of actually having to plan it. It’s all in the photo album.”

“Very good of you,” the demon replies. “Very thorough. I would have expected nothing less.”

“Well, that’s settled, then.” Aziraphale smiles. “Shall we have some lunch?”

“Good idea. And since time is not passing here, wherever this is, we might make it a long one. Several hundred years, perhaps.”

“What about the Apocalypse? There won’t be any good restaurants.”

Crowley snorts. “I don’t think there was an Apocalypse. Did you hear trumpets? See any graves opening up, souls being hauled out of the ground?”

“Well, no.” He looks around, biting his lip. “Should we let someone know we’ve gone to lunch?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whenever we decide to come back, it isn’t as if any time will have gone by.”

The angel nods. “Shall we try the Ritz?”

The demon tilts his head and smiles. “I’m told there’s a very nice place called Angelo’s in Marylebone. Excellent tira misu.”

At Angelo’s, a table is always mysteriously available for an angel and a demon. The owner brings over bottle of Pinot Noir and a candle. “More romantic,” he says, lighting it.

Crowley pours them each a glass of wine. “A toast?”

“Indeed,” replies the angel, raising his glass. “To time, which makes everything more interesting.”

The demon responds, “To eternity, which allows us to appreciate time.”


End file.
